Chapter 2 Flight into Shadows

Molly's POV

Fibrizio, I'm leaving. I wish I could bring you this personally. But I am tired of waiting now. I won to be another pawn in John's hands; they want to trap me. Forget you; if you ever looked after me. Don't try to find me; if you ever loved me as a brother. Simply said, I had no choice.

I folded the paper and my fingers shook. I pushed it well inside my notebook, felt the brink of the envelope, looked at my name scribbled across it in uneven script, then pushed it further within.

But the emotion stayed with me. The weight stayed in my chest like something left unsaid. As I got out of the chair, a lump in my throat got tighter. I looked about the room, at the walls formerly filled with laughing, the shelf still holding my mother's beloved books, the broken windowpane never corrected.

That letter cannot be left behind.

It would only cause conflict.

I moved quite quickly, nearly too quickly. The notebook opened out in my hand. The envelope dropped free and floated toward the carpet like a dead leaf. I took it up, flipped it over once, then twice, then once more. The hearth's fire cracked and spewed cinders.

I moved nearer.

The paper grabbed fire more quickly than I anticipated. It whirled and blackened, ashes floating like small ghosts. I watched the last of it break down, a faint scorching emerging from the ashes.

Not now was turning back possible.

Underneath my bed, I withdrew the faded canvas bag. My hands worked without thought, folding garments, tucking in the little cash I had saved, a picture of my parents, a pair of gloves, my student ID, and the fake papers I had stashed under the loose floorboard for months.

the phoney license. changed birth certificate. Under another name is the transportation pass.

I slid them under my blouse, toward the skin, tightly wrapped against my body. Looking at myself in the mirror, same face, same eyes, but something strange in the reflection, my heart stuttered. A woman on the edge of running.

As I pushed my body against the wall, my fingertips stroked the brick covered with ivy. I started to breathe faster now. I passed the old fountain; its marble angels, their stony features worn down to smooth, sorrowful smiles, chipped and coated with moss.

I started toward the corner post.

Stiff with rust, the wrought iron gate creaked under my hand. I started to hurt. In darkness, every sound seemed more powerful. I pressed inch by inch until the aperture was wide enough to slide through.

But the second I passed the threshold and light burst behind me.

a movement sensor.

Sadly late.

As I dove low, bag crushed at my side, my pulse hammered across my ribs. The light created lengthy shadows on the brick path as it spilled across the hedges in a broad arc.

Had they seen me?

I was not waiting to learn.

Boots crunching with each stride, I shot across the gravel alleyway. My body followed instinct, head down, arms close, heart jumping higher every second. Looking back would be too expensive.

The street cleared ahead. Beyond the boundaries of the estate, the city breathed noise, traffic, anonymity. liberty.

Slinking between two buildings, I dropped behind a dumpster until the light behind me clicked off once more. My lungs cried out for breathing. My fingertips hurt with cold.

I still stopped for a moment.

I then smiled.

I would have made it outside.

Still, it was still under development.

Like every other female strolling late into the city night, I straightened, tightened the scarf around my neck, and sank into the glow of the streetlight.

Except I was not merely strolling.

I started to sprint.

Leaving for my life.

And they did not yet know.

but they would.

I couldn identify the sound the breeze conveyed.

a clean metallic scream.

I kept my hood down, scarf tightly over my chin, merging with the shuffle of night visitors. My eyes flew across the terminal board, departure timings flashing red against the screen covered in dust-smudges.

Sacramento, 11:15 PM.

San Diego, tonight midnight.

Los Angeles, twelve twenty in the morning.

No direct paths to the calmer coast of California. I had to vanish, not be spotted drinking tea in a downtown cafe. Heart still racing, I moved approached the kiosk.

Not even looking up, the woman behind the desk had languid rhythm with her fingers clanking against keys.

I said, keeping my voice low, "one-way." "San Bernardino."

Her fingers stopped, bored, distant, her eyes flicked up. "Cash or card?" asks

I moved folded cash under the glass.

Her hands did not move quickly. Not one thing about her did. Every second stretched too long as I tapped my fingers on the counter.

The ticket turned out with slow hiss.

Platform Four:

She said, "Next bus leaves in fifteen," handing it across.

I snatched it quickly, fingers stroking the edge like it may vanish with a blink-off.

I turned, but something hardened my gut.

One man leaned against the pillar close to the vending machine area. He turned away from the board. He was not perusing the newspaper. Apart from watching me, he was not doing anything.

a wool coat. Black gloves for leather. Dark cap pulled low over face I couldn't quite see.

But I was aware of that posture.

Too Still. Not too balanced.

He wasn't a tourist either. He was expecting.

I turned to look at the benches. A woman cradled her weeping infant. A man in overalls peicked at his sandwich. On her phone, a teenage girl skrolled.

Not one of them turned to see him.

He wasn't looking at them, though.

With my ticket like a lifeline, I proceeded carefully toward the platform.

Don't rush.

Running generates interest.

Act as if you belong here.

Every foot I pushed into steady rhythm. My shoulders came back to themselves. My breathing brought itself under control. My back burned, though, like if his eyes were engraved into it.

A bus rummled into the harbor, headlights cutting the darkness, brakes screaming.

I turned away from the past.

One foot after another, I persisted in walking till I came to the side of the bus and the driver opened the luggage hatch.

"Boarding now," he growled, nodding at the line developing behind me.

I gave him the ticket then started climbing.

Inside the air felt warm and stuffy. I crouched low, slid into a seat close to the rear, eyes locked on the shadowed glass.

Out there the man has disappeared.

But my skin felt like it crawled.

The bus door creaked close.

And with every mile, the world outside that station, the mansion, the threats, Jack, John, everything slid more behind me.

Still, I couldn't get it off my mind.

I had been observed by someone.

Nor would they stop.

Curling toward the window, I watched the blur of shadowed trees, half-lit buildings, and the infrequent neon flutter like ghosts. Faces came and went in those reflections, my mother's elegant eyes, my father's friendly smile, the way they used to laugh in the garden following Sunday lunch. The black road ahead swallowed the echoes then.

Needing something firm on my flesh, something that stayed the same when I blinked, I placed my forehead against the chilly glass. Inside me, all was falling apart.

Mom's voice reverberated in the hollowed corners of my consciousness, gentle, shaking, almost above a whisper.

"Never rely entirely on anyone, Molly. Including those who hold your hand.

I had dismissed it as paranoia then. It now hung about me like a second skin.

The other travellers were still silent. A pair close to the front had a thermos between them and quiet, familiar whispers. Ignorant of the weight held by others around her, a youngster slept snuggled next to her, thumb tucked into her lips. A man behind me snorted softly, his cap pulled low around his face.

But I stayed awake unable to go asleep.

My hands stayed buried in my lap, tightly closed fingers around nothing. Though my body was still moving, my mind spun in every other direction.

If they knew I would run... If they were already looking, how long before the distance stopped being important?

The bus swung softly onto a ramp for a freeway. I sat up somewhat, straighter. I lacked the means for comfort. I have to keep on watch.

Buzzed on my phone was something.

At first, I moved quite slowly. Though weak, the vibration slid across my thigh like a warning.

I grabbed from my coat pocket, the screen flickering with the pale glow of the unknown.

Name not specified. No ID. Simply a set of digits I couldn identify.

My thumb hung over the display.

Only one ring. Another. Silence comes next.

I fixed my gaze on the digits, heart rising slowly toward my throat.

Then still another message blazed over the screen.

You seem exhausted.

The voice of the driver cracked across the overhead speaker. Ten-minute halt for rest. Take what you require. Try not to stray too far.

Rising gradually, I tried not to attract notice. My legs felt rigid and tingly. I changed my coat and got off the bus; the frigid air encircled me like a second set of arms.

The station was little more than a run-down roadside cafe with flickering fluorescent lights and a twisted sign that, should the wind blow exactly right, would likely fall. A few vending machines hummed quietly along the wall. Benevolent behind dirty windows, a convenience store blinked.

First desiring a mirror more than anything else, I went toward the toilets. Most days I avoided thinking; but just now I had to see the girl who had dared to flee.

The mirror had edges discoloured and broken. My face turned back, weary eyes, hollowed-from-stress lips pressed thin under control. But under there I sensed fire. The sort of fire my mother used to describe calm strength. I looked that way for a breath longer then turned away.

I stopped at the bus's shadow's edge as I retreated outdoors.

Mobility.

Two males with low heads stood by the vending machines, whispering tightly. If only for the obvious flash of a cufflink glinting beneath one man's jacket, I may have discounted tourists, strangers, passersby, if not entirely.

Gold with a triangle.

Signature work for John Astor's personal security team.